Archive for the ‘agents’ Category

I led a very untraditional lifestyle when I was growing up. My father, whom I later realized was schizophrenic, had the wanderlust to travel, which our family did for about 6 months of the year. He would remove me out of school and we would take off for various areas of the country, living in our Volkswagen van. ( Although I am sure that today’s public education system would not allow it, somehow I think my father would have taken me out anyway.)

It was quite an adventure for a child like me. I have a vivid memory of cracking eggs in a big, black, iron frying pan over a campfire in the Badlands in South Dakota. The rocks the pan was on were not sturdy, and the pan fell sideways with the eggs slowly leaking out onto the pine needles on the ground. (Clumsy then…still clumsy.) I remember traveling in southern Georgia, driving for miles watching red clay cover everything…the houses, the cars, and even the clothes hanging on the lines. It was at the beginning of the civil rights movement, and I was uneducated in this area, (probably because I didn’t go to school!) The whole concept of a bathroom for “whites only” was a shock to me. Did that mean that only people wearing white clothes could use it? (I’m picturing nurses, dentists, pharmacists…) I couldn’t use it because I had on my only pair of pants, jeans, and a multi-colored t-shirt. But I had to go to the bathroom baaaaad, where would I go? Behind the bushes? How degrading! My misunderstanding of this concept is now a slight reminder of what it felt like be African American in the 60’s. I also have the memory of a bear at Yellowstone Park coming onto our campsite to eat our dinner as we all huddled in the car. My brother, Curtis, was upset because he had left a package of Cracker Jacks on the picnic table. We had to restrain him from leaping out of the car to get it. Afterwards, I was not so keen to sit by the campfire…

But most of all, I remember my constant companion; Curtis. He was four years younger than I was, and he had been born with Rubella Syndrome; developmentally delayed, cleft palate, legally blind, and severely hearing impaired. He was my buddy. Because my dad was extremely frugal, (ie obsessive compulsive disorder frugal,) I did not have many toys to play with. So, in addition to reading a lot, I played in our surroundings with my brother. I have a memory of sitting by a stream, sun shining down on the water through the leaves on the trees. Curtis was happily splashing about in the shallow water. I was looking for rocks that somewhat resembled people. (They were no Barbie dolls, but some kind of looked like Alfred Hitchcock and Potato Head.) All of a sudden I heard a whoooooosh! Curtis had ventured too far into the water and the current started to carry him downstream! Fortunately, I had long, slim legs (in those days,) and with a few strides, I picked him up by the back of his pants. He was laughing heartily. To him it was a real adventure. Like the poor person’s substitute for a ride at Disneyland!

We actually had a lovely childhood together. I had to carry him everywhere because he could not walk sturdily. Carrying him was just a natural way of life for me. I don’t know why, but I never thought to be embarrassed by him, (although his screeching and attempt at speech WAS pretty scary). I never ever thought of him as a burden. He was just my buddy, Curtis.

My parents rarely took pictures. (The money thing again…) But I do remember ONE picture. It was a picture of me and Curtis, standing in front of Mount Rushmore. I was characteristically giving him a piggy back ride. The photo shows Curtis, looking over my shoulder, eyes squinted shut by the glare of the sun. I was wearing a stupid, treasured, red velvet derby hat, (you know, like jockeys wear.) As the dead presidents loomed behind us, I gave my characteristically stupid, toothy grin, (like all children do when their parents ask them to smile.) And on that day, I first heard the song from Neil Diamond which fit my sentiments exactly: “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother”. It was a powerful moment to think that someone had put into words what my life was like.

I was so very lucky to have been raised the way I was because it formed my personality, my temperament, and my compassion for others. I personally cannot take credit for the way I live now, fostering and adopting children. I am not selfless, nor amazing, nor wonderful, nor any of the other adjectives readers have used to describe me. I am simply living my life the way I was raised and it is a wonderful life!

Marie came to live with us at the age of 6. She had been picked up off the street at 4 in the morning, barefoot, in her underwear, looking for food. We took her in as an emergency foster placement because I knew American Sign Language and Marie was deaf. She looked like a wild animal…disheveled, matted hair, flaming eyes of distrust, so filthy everywhere that even an hour in the tub did not wash off all the grime. Her teeth were dingy yellow, and her body was emaciated. Being the “good” middle class mother that I was, I cleaned her as best I could and then I took her to buy some clothes.

In the store, she immediately disappeared. I impulsively called her name, (as though she could hear me.) When I finally found her, she was in the candy aisle, shoving candy bars into the pocket of her pants. I screamed, “No! No! No!” She looked at me and ran in the other direction. I finally tracked her down in the pet aisle, just as she was about to open the cage to the hamsters. I screeched and said “No! No! No!”, and proceeded to grab her, pick her up, empty the candy bars in her pocket, and tote her back to the car without buying anything. If I thought this would teach her a lesson, it did not. She was not used to buying anything, so she could not appreciate something she never had.

We ate out for lunch at McDonald’s. Marie ate her sandwich and drank her milk and threw the wrapper and container on the floor. No! No! No!

The next day I gave her a stern talking to (“signing to?) and told her that we were going shopping for clothes and that she needed to stay with me. As though THAT was going to work! As soon as we got into the mall, a place she obviously had never seen before, she skirted UP the DOWN escalator, laughing with glee. Mortified, I screamed and said No! No! No! and then watched in horror as she slid down the banister of the escalator. Big scream! No! No! No! Home we went.

Once at home, she got an orange to eat. She grabbed the butcher knife to cut it and I screamed and caught her hand just as it was about to demolish the orange. No! No! No!

The next day we were going to take a walk to the library. She broke free from the grip I had on her hand, and ran across 4 lanes of traffic. Scream! No! No! No!

Later in the evening, while watching television, Marie climbed onto my husband’s lap, where she attempted to rub his “private parts” and kiss him. SUPER BIG SCREECH! No! No! No! Oh! This child was so “bad”! WHAT was I going to do with her?

At the end of the week, I went to Marie’s school where she was part of a dance performance. I was glad to be able to be there, as her birth mother had never been seen at the school before. I watched with pride as she danced and twirled, often sneaking a peak at me to see if I was looking. When the dance was over, I saw her talking (signing) with another student who commented that Marie had a new mom, and how did she like her? Marie looked over at me for a minute and crumpled her nose, telling her that all I ever do is scream and say No! No! No! I was shocked. I had never thought of it before, but she was right! I was so busy chasing and correcting her that it would seem like all I did was scold her. And what was I scolding her for? For what I, as a middle class mother, think is wrong. I had never taken into account that Marie had been raised to do all of those things…to steal food, to take what she wanted from stores, to litter, to be sexually promiscuous (at the age of SIX!) and to have no worries about safety, thinking she was invincible. This young child, who had lived on the streets and managed to survive without any parental care, just parental abuse…WAS invincible! She did what she needed to survive.

I was so embarrassed. Embarrassed because I was judging her by my standards and not stopping to think of what her standards were. I vowed never to scream No! No! No! again, but to explain things in a loving manner to her.

We do not steal. If you want something, I can probably buy it for you.

We do not run into streets with cars, use butcher knives, or slide down escalators. It is not safe.

We do not just throw garbage on the ground, but in our family we pick it up and put it in a garbage can.

And, most of all, there is no need to make money by being “friendly to men”. We have plenty of money so you don’t have to do that. And it is not fair that you had to do that instead of just being a little girl. And you never have to do that again.

Marie did not change overnight, but each time she would fall back onto old habits such as stealing or being unsafe, I would lovingly explain why she no longer had to do that. She had a family that loved her and it was our job to keep her safe.

Then there was the time when, walking in the mall with a soft drink in her hand, she unwrapped the straw and threw the paper on the ground. My eyes widened, and she laughed when she saw my reaction. “I was just teasing you” she signed. “I know I don’t litter in this family….”

I am not one to generally accept awards. I am pleased to receive nominations, but I do not generally post the award. I strive to stay level headed and an every day person. (Awards would tend to inflate my ego and I may start to sound “uppity”, which is not in my nature.)

However ,Michele Kearns who has the inspirational blog Joy Returns, nominated me for a very special award:

These people do not have to actively use the word “hope” in their work or creative talents. They only need be conscious of their desire to make the world a better place for everyone.

These people use their available resources–a smile, a hug, a helping hand, a listening ear, a voice, time, money, possessions, education, personality, talent, websites and blogs—to make a positive impact on the world and make the world a better place to live.

Like the rest of the nation, I have been saddened by the tragedy at the school in Connecticut. All of those poor children and adults who are dead. It is very mesmerizing for the nation, and feelings are raw, trying to find someone to blame to make sense of it all. People are blaming God.

I have learned in my own life that tragedies happen every day. Children are terminally ill. Children are struck by cars and killed. Parents abuse children beyond the scope of the normal imagination, (just ask my own beautiful children.) Tsunamis strike. Floods devastate. FAmines consumer whole countries. Earthquakes destroy communities and people. Murders and domestic abuse happens. I am sure that you can think of many, many more tragedies that have happened, and many more will. It is awful. It is saddening. It is unbelievable, and as humans we naturally look for someone to blame. Maybe there IS someone to blame in some circumstances, but God is not to blame. To attribute His involvement with us to cause every disaster is ludicrous. For which disasters should He take blame…natural ones? man-made ones? And how large of a disaster should he take blame? Where many people are killed? Where only one is killed? Where people are very ill and suffering? Where I get laid off from a job and have no money? Where I have blister on my big toe?

My point is, it is not God’s fault. We are placed on earth with our own free wills; on an earth that has always experienced natural disasters. We are actually lucky that we have not been wiped out completely by a wayward asteroid similar to the one that made the dinosaur distinct! But if we were to be destroyed, the ultimate tragedy, it would not be God’s fault. He loves us. We are all His children. He mourns when a child is severely hurt, a woman is a victim of domestic abuse, when houses and lives are destroyed by natural disasters, and when people are suffering. But if He were to intervene, then we would be but His puppets placed on this roller coaster of ride called earth. God may be Almighty, but that does not mean that he takes over for His children or his earthly creation. That would not fit the description of “life”.

Yes, I am greatly saddened by the Connecticut massacre. People may disagree with me vehemently, but I have empathy for the actions of the killer, who obviously was mentally ill. To have reached this stage of his life with such bad thoughts, (similar to the demons which cause violent actions from two of my own children,) is a also a tragedy. This incident took not only the lives of the children and adults murdered, but the life of a young man who will forever be vilified for his actions. It is a tragedy all around, and God is mourning with us.

When I was young, I thought couple who celebrated their 25th wedding anniversaries were old. I learned when I celebrated mine, that they were really quite young. I was astonished I ever thought differently. How could I EVER have thought that? I must have needed glasses at the time.

Being married more than 25 years to my “first love” has been a blessing. He was the cook and I was the waitress at a restaurant I worked in while in college. Here is some advice for anyone reading who is not yet married: LOOK FOR SOMEONE WHO LIKES TO COOK. I have been so fortunate because HE does all of the grocery shopping and cooking. Really. I come home almost every day to a delightfully cooked meal, complete with salad, meat, veggies, and an tall iced glass of Diet Coke. He used to make desserts, too, until we both started to expand our waists…

For Thanksgiving, we have a great family tradition. I and ten others in my immediate family, (children, their significant others, and a grandchild) go to the movies. Yes, the movies! We saw “The Life of Pi” because several of my children are fascinated with animals. It was about an Indian boy shipwrecked with some animals from his family zoo. Everyone seemed to enjoy it because it had something for everyone. Brooding, spiritual, philosophical content along with a cheetah jumping on animals and killing them for food. The food chain. Done tastefully with no blood or other sites where one has to turn their head, shut their eyes and go “EWWWWWWW”. We enjoyed buckets of drenched in fake butter popcorn and ICEEs. Great day at the movies for us. Great day in the kitchen for my husband, who loves to cook but likes to have a quiet kitchen, something which is rarely available to him.

We came home from the movies and VOILA! Turkey and trimmings are on the neatly set table with the obligatory child made Turkey centerpiece. All 12 of us sat down and had an extremely delicious dinner. My husband basked in the glory. There is nothing better than doing something you love and getting praise for it.

I was proud of my children who “signed” (American Sign Language) for Marie, who is deaf. We signed the simple Thanksgiving prayer,and the conversations began. As a mother, there is no sweeter sight than all of my family members being happy and sharing conversation with Marie, who smiled and laughed and participated. I think I have raised them right. I remember that every Thanksgiving and I my little heart smiles inside me.

Her story begins not with her children but with her own childhood spent traveling the country in the backseat of her parents’ car (her perpetually restless dad had post-traumatic stress disorder from WWII), often with very little money and few provisions. Where someone else might have seen deprivation and isolation, Petersen viewed her unusual childhood with a sense of wonder and gratitude. After marrying young and giving birth to a son who was legally blind (and who went on to earn a PhD on full scholarship), Petersen and her husband adopted four more special needs children and fostered many others.

Her honesty, wit, and terrific storytelling make this a book you want to read rather than one you feel you should read. So there I was, swiping pages on an iPad in the dark in a blackout… I couldn’t have picked a better book for putting it all in perspective.

I apologize for repeating this post from 2011, but it is on of my favorites, and a memory that is brought to mind on those few occasions that i have to go to court for my children and I see this particular lawyer there…

A very conservative lawyer friend had a very conservative lawyer wife who had taken up belly dancing. She and 2 friends were so skilled in this talent that they were chosen to be performers for a large audience for First Night, the annual New Year’s Eve celebration in the city. For an added “twist” to their act, my lawyer friend asked if his wife could borrow one of my son’s 5 foot long boa constrictors for their dance. I had plenty of reservations, but I said okay. (It is always good to keep a lawyer friend happy because you never know when you will need a lawyer’s help.) The ladies came to our house, and practiced with the snake while my son, Steven, who is very familiar with snakes, supervised. The practice went very well, and the ladies excitedly decided to bill their act as the “The Dance of the Snake Goddesses.”

Well, New Year’s Eve came and I reminded Steven that we had to take the snake to the performance hall for the act. Steven, who has Asperger’s and an anxiety disorder, was mortified! There was no way HE was going to go to a large hall where there were a lot of people! He handed me a pillowcase to put the snake in, and a bottle of alcohol “in case it bit someone”. He promptly took off on his bike peddling away to destinations unknown to me, (but far away from First Night appearance.) I started to panic! These excited dancers were billed as the “The Dance of the Snake Goddesses” and they would have no snake! Feeling extremely obligated to provide them with a snake, I decided to bring the it myself. I had not minded the snakes when they were locked in the glass tanks, but somehow I was going to have to get up the nerve to actually take the snake out and put it in the pillowcase. My hands were shaking as I undid the lock and took the cover off of the tank. It looked docile enough, just lying there. I reached in and managed to push it into the pillowcase using a long sleeved pot holder, proud of myself for not having to touch it. Maybe I’d be okay! I tentatively carried the pillowcase to the living room, but I had miscalculated by not securing the top of it. The snake’s head popped out, I pushed it back down. It popped out again, and I pushed it down again. This time it was stronger and its head came our farther. When I tried to push it back in, it wiggle away from me and the whole snake came slithering out of the bag, which I promptly dropped. There, on the floor of our living room, was a slithering 5 foot long snake! I screamed. My husband came to see what was going on, and he jumped up on the couch and screamed. Even though I was shaking and my first instinct was to smash the thing over the head with a broom, I remembered my commitment to our lawyer friends. I gathered up my courage and, using the broom gently, I nudged it back into the pillowcase, this time immediately tying the top into a knot.

I was still shaking from this experience as I drove to the city with the wriggling pillowcase on the seat next to me. I was feeling tremendous relief that I had at least caught it and was on my way to the performance. I even felt a little sorry for it, and turned the heat all the way up in my car so it could be warm. (It had started to snow outside, which would mean there would be a larger than usual audience for an inside performance as the outside First Night performances would involved standing around in wet snow. Great! A bigger audience for what was sure to be a Snake Goddess fiasco!)

When we got near the theater, I put the pillowcase inside my coat to keep it warm. (MY I was brave!) There was a line around the building waiting to see the performance. I went to the head of the line, and quietly said to the guard at the door, “I have the snake for the performance.” In his loudest voice, he parted the crowd by saying “Make way for the snake handler. Make way for the snake handler!” I wanted to hide! As a 55 year old shaking, nervous, dowdy woman, I no more resembled a snake handler than a chipmunk would resemble Santa Clause.

I managed to get back stage with the snake and the belly dancers were very excited. They carefully took him (her? I couldn’t tell the difference,) out of the bag and began to practice. By now I was shaking so badly that my stomach was in knots. I was holding the bottle of alcohol (“in case it bit someone”.) I was on the verge of tears, both from relief that I’d delivered the snake in one piece, but also fear that it would bite and there would be blood and screams and lawsuits.

The audience in the large theater was packed, standing room only. The music for the dancers began. They dramatically began the act hidden behind veils, with the snake on one woman with the head at one hand, draped across her back, and the tail on the other hand. They did a dramatic dance, dropping the veils at different intervals for the audience to get a glimpse of the snake. I could hear “ooooh” and “aaaaaah” from the audience. I was hoping the snake wasn’t going to slither down and into the audience causing mass panic, emptying the audience out into the street, or, worse yet, go around biting audience members with me following along with my bottle of alcohol. (Then I’d really need a lawyer for the lawsuits!)

Then something strange happened. The dancers dropped their veils, and the snake actually seemed to join in the dance. Soon its head was wriggling in time to the music, its tail was swaying around, and it seemed to be having a grand old time! It began to slither in time to the music (a pure coincidence I’m sure,) from one dancer to the next. It was an amazing sight, the graceful gyrating dancers and the graceful gyrating snake, all moving in time to the music. Mesmerizing. Amazing. The act finished to a standing ovation, and darn it if it didn’t seem as though the snake bowed his head in response to the clapping from the audience.

After the show, the dancers gave the snake a few affectionate pats and back into the pillowcase it went. I tied it in a knot, put it under my coat, and carried it back to the car. I felt as though I was going to cry, but this time it was tears of relief. I don’t know how I get myself into these situations, but, again, I’d come through it unscathed, with a little more respect for the reptile in the pillowcase next to me!

Francis, who is severely visually impaired enough to be considered legally blind, was skilled enough that he was able to attend a mainstream kindergarten. He needed some modifications, including large print materials. He adjusted well to the class, but one week came home and told me that they had a guest speaker come to their classroom. An exterminator came to the classroom to tell them about termites and such. He was clearly shaken by the presentation, and for the next several nights he had nightmares, couldn’t sleep, and kept the light on in his room.

He was petrified of termites! Trying to calm him down, I said “Why are you afraid of teeny tiny termites?” “TINY???” he cried, ‘They’re HUGE!” Only people who have driven through Providence, Rhode Island and have seen the 30 foot long, 10 foot tall “Big Blue Bug” as an advertisement for an exterminator which sits proudly right next to Route 95 would understand why he thought termites were huge. After all, he was too visually impaired to see a real termite, and thought that all termites were that big! No wonder he was so frightened! We’ve had a good laugh over that story for years!

Another interesting story was how he chose his friends. With limited vision, he could only make out vague details of the other children. Yet, he had one good friend named Eddie. He and Eddie always hung out together. One day I brought him to school late, and as I looked over the sea of Caucasian, blonde haired little five year olds, I heard Francis say “There’s Eddie” as he happily jumped through the crowd to sit next to the only African American boy in the class. Real easy to spot!

As Francis got older, he wanted to participate in sports. He took up wrestling through the Police Athletic League where his vision would not impair his performance. I, however, had never been to a wrestling match before. At his first match, he was wrestling with another boy his size and he reached over while the other boy supposedly made an “illegal move”. Francis’ arm cracked the boy in the nose, and soon there was blood everywhere. I’m screaming. The kid with an obviously broken nose is screaming. And Francis was screaming because he had won the match! That was his one and only wrestling match. Okay, so blame me for being an overprotective mom, but the sight of blood tends to sour me on a sport.

After that, Francis took up swimming, a sport he excelled at, and one in which he could not get hurt or hurt anyone else. He remained in this sport for many years, and won several honors for his fast swimming. It gave him a chance to be a member of team and compete with other people where vision was not an issue.

Francis also became an excellent skier, skiing by following closely in the tracks of a lead skier. He went to winter camps in Colorado run by the Christian Braille Foundation from the age of 14 years old, flying alone across the country to join other skiers with vision impairments. By the time he was a young adult, he was easily skiing black diamond slopes in Maine and New Hampshire. much to my chagrin. I was petrified he was going to ski into a tree! (This was around the time one of the Kennedy’s died by running into a tree.) In his early twenties, while Francis was attending college in Cambridge, England, he made several forays skiing in the Alps. He sent me a gorgeous picture of him at the top of the mountain, the sunshine on his back, his dark glasses gleaming in the sun with a big smile on his face. He signed the picture “Look, Ma! No trees!” because skiing in the Alps is done above the tree line. I felt much relieved. What a great place to ski! Until I learned from someone that there are not TREES on the Alps, but there are plenty of AVALANCHES!

While in Cambridge, Francis joined a punting team. His team was very successful because he was the lead “punter”. (I don’t know what it is called…) He would stand at the front of the long, flat boat with a long pole. Because of the fact he was 6 foot 4 inches, his pole would go deeply into the water and propel the boat forward. He was also very agile and could do this very fast. His team members would direct him on which way to steer, and they became a champion team!

Despite all of my fears and worries as a parent, Francis has successfully made it to adulthood and continues to try new sports, surfing in Hawaii, wind surfing in California, and, , jogging in marathons. He even obtained a license to captain his own sailboat crew. It just demonstrates that being legally blind does not have to hamper your activities, they just are done in different ways!